“But maybe if we tweak it a bit,” I continued. “See, I’m kinda stumped as to where to go from there. I mean, what happens to the couple?”
“Beats the shit out of me,” Herblach said in a flat tone.
“OK, let’s put that aside for now. There’s another plotline. Subplot, if you wish. The guys who arranged for this couple to go to Vegas, they’re part of this ‘off-the-grid criminal enterprise’ made up of cops and goons, politicians and union leaders, and guys with money to burn. I think there has to be a part for De Niro. You think so, Sal?”
Sal nodded, cracked his knuckles again, then said, “I could play a goon.”
“Look. I don’t deal with criminals. As you’ve probably seen, I do well enough making an honest living.”
“But that’s not how it always was, right, Jerry? Like, gee, taking credit for a song you didn’t write. And then the real composer gets killed. And this so-called criminal element, they know your story. Shit, they’re onto you, so you have to go along. Boy, I’d like to see what Robert Towne would do with this material.”
Pierre came back, this time with Penelope. Jerry held up a hand, and they practically skidded to a stop.
“Look,” he said to me and Sal, “I really thought they were going to Peru, OK? Where Matthew’s dad lives. I expressly told them NOT to get involved with those guys. I told them I would fund their film. I owed it to Gerard. Work that into your fucking script.”
“Good story. Not entirely plausible, but—”
“I don’t buy it,” Sal said.
“You got the wrong guy. You’re thinking about Kamana and his out-of-control boys—I keep my distance from those thugs. When you have Downey and Affleck on your speed dial, you don’t have to deal with that kinda shit.”
“But you do … and did,” Sal put in.
“We got pictures, Jerry.”
That stopped him for a minute. Probably made him think for a second of all the candid and not-so-candid shots he’s been a part of, whether incidental, or salacious, or downright dirty. In an angry, shaky voice he said, “There’s a huge difference between a photo-op—which is what those guys wanted—and what you’re accusing me of. I tried to help Kay and Matt. Said I’d come on as a producer. But Kay, she still holds a grudge. I thought we’d resolved it ages ago.”
“You mean your ripping her dad off? Stealing his song?”
“If that’s your take on this, no wonder you’re coming at me.”
An actor I couldn’t identify came up. Speaking around Sal he told Jerry that some of the cast members wanted to meet with him.
“Give me a minute,” Jerry told this actor.
He seemed clearly bothered that we were bothering their producer. He picked up the pieces of the plaque and walked away with them.
“You see,” Jerry continued, “what you don’t know is, Kay and I have had some long discussions regarding her father’s legacy. I have these tapes of her father performing. I’ve always had them. With her and her mom’s approval, I was going to release them as an album, you know, in CD format, so we can get more songs in. It’s not the greatest recordings. Some are demo quality, but I’ve been wanting to do this for years and we finally got to talk about it.”
“Songwriting credit?”
“All his. You see, Matt and that stinkin’ crew of his from UCLA want to paint me as the song thief, the guy who took credit. That’s so fucking far from the truth. You know what the truth is?”
“Please tell me.”
“Truth is, none of the people we recorded gave a damn about songwriting credits—”
“—Unless they thought they were the next Dylan.”
“Fucking liar,” Sal said.
“Look”—Herblach was facing Sal now—“believe it or not, twenty-five years ago Hawai‘i was still in the dark ages when it came to the business side of music. It wasn’t sinister. We had deadlines. We just divvied up songwriting credit to anyone who was around to sign the forms. Performance was what mattered anyway. Or seemed to. You don’t know half the shit I had to deal with…. Cost overruns, finicky, drug-addled musicians…. Sure, at some point guys came to me saying they wanted songwriting credit—and Lino was one of them—and we complied. We began the process of correcting all this, and Lino would have benefited too, except he was killed. End of story. By then I’d had enough of that fucking business. Way too much bullshit. Shit you wouldn’t believe. I sold everything, lock, stock, barrel, and moved back to California. I moved on.”
“What about the break-ins? Somebody digging through Lino’s cassette collection?”
A huge sigh. “I heard about that. I can’t believe Minerva would think I had anything to do with that. She must think really lowly of me. Jesus. What does she want? I sent them a big, fat check after Lino died. Offered to pay for her daughter’s college education….”
Talk about hearing twenty sides to a story.
“… We tried everything to get Lino on vinyl. He just never got his shit together. Just weeks ago, I promised Kay it’ll happen.”
“Where?”
“We have enough tapes. Not stolen ones. Tell me, why steal some cheap cassettes when—”
“I’m asking you where? Where were you when you talked to Kay?”
“Don’t know. It was over the phone. Could’ve been anywhere.”
“When?”
“A month ago. Or so.” He didn’t want to say Las Vegas.
Pierre was back.
“Look. I really have to go. If Minerva’s strapped I’ll pay for your investigation.”
“Oh, you’ll pay,” Sal muttered.
“You played with those guys you call thugs at Steve Wynn’s private course,” I said as he started to walk away. He stopped.
“Sure. I arranged it. Look, I don’t walk away from someone who has a gun to my head. I have nothing more to say.” He continued to walk away and we let him.
Outside the theater, I took in the sultry air.
“Whadaya think?” I said to Sal.
“He could’ve ordered the shooting—of Lino, I mean. No way in the world was that fucker the shooter. Guys like him are always a few layers removed. My guess is he told someone to tell someone to give the order. Even if somebody talked, someone else would’ve taken the fall for him.”
“Just like Kamana.”
“Yeah, this guy’s just as bad, and just as clever.”
“Maybe he’ll move back here and run for mayor.”
“Honolulu’s too small for him. L.A.’s more to his taste.”
Sal then told me he wanted to check on something. Said he’d get back to me. I decided to take a chance on returning to my floating domicile. It was home, after all.
55
MIDNIGHT RAID
I had just gotten back to the harbor and parked my car when I noticed that my boat and the surrounding area were all lit up. When I approached I saw guys in navy blue jackets all over my dwelling. They were tearing up the hold, turning over everything.
Some entity is flexing its power.
“What the fuck is going on?’ I asked one of the agents.
“We have a warrant.” He pulled it out of his back pocket.
“What the fuck for?”
“Suspicion of drug smuggling.”
It seemed like a sick joke, like maybe Rian’s behind this for show, but I also felt that touch of fear one gets when he begins to realize he is but a fly, a buzzing nuisance on the edge of a coffee cup, about to be dispensed with as the newspaper-turned-flyswatter rises above.
“Which politically connected degenerate put you guys up to this?” I said to the guy who seemed to be in charge.
“We got a tip.”
“Yeah? You guys find anything?”
“Actually, we did find traces of cocaine in the hold. The dogs went wild down there.”
Oh fuck. Now I’m going to jail ’cause somebody planted shit on me.
They continued their search and even though they thought they found cocaine residue, whatev
er it was they detected existed in such trace amounts as to be virtually nonexistent. The search crew also found some other kind of white powder, a slightly off-white variety, which turned out to be whey. Maybe that’s what drove the dogs into a frenzy.
When the government goons finally gave up, they didn’t apologize. The look they gave me was, You got away with it this time but we’ ll be watching your ass.
Yeah, well, fuck you too.
• • •
Rian and I sat on the deck of his boat. It was close to 2 a.m. We had come together to clear the air, yet seemed not to have found the words. Either that or we’d both forgotten how to use them.
After minutes of deadly silence Rian got up and went into his cabin. He came back on deck carrying a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a large envelope. He handed me the envelope. It was the envelope with the photos, the one I had stashed in the cabin’s false ceiling, the envelope whose contents someone, probably Rian, had rearranged.
“Thought you’d need this.”
As I looked into the envelope to see if the pictures were there and intact, Rian said, “A few hours before they raided your boat I saw a couple of guys jump onto your boat and enter your cabin. They weren’t looking for stuff.”
“They were planting stuff?”
“Right … They were dressed casually, but they looked like Feds.”
“You mean like you?”
“I don’t have that look.”
“Right.”
“I went onto your boat after they left. Found the packets of crystal meth they were planning to find to bust you for. Fucking idiots don’t know it’s all on tape…. And since I knew about the false ceiling, I thought it best that I take the envelope, knowing this is the kinda shit they’d confiscate.”
It took me a while to respond. When I did all that came out was a soft mutter: “Thanks—for having my back.”
“I signed up to go after criminals. When they start framing people—”
“So what? You switched sides?”
“They switched sides, brah.”
Rian poured his favorite chardonnay into the two glasses and handed me one.
I drank to numb the pain.
“So what else do you know, my friend?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure that Drew Geary is the fella who’s been running this whole operation. Drugs from Baja to Cali, Cali to O‘ahu. It appears that through a carefully constructed network of associates, he’s been dealing with the Sinaloa Cartel.”
“El Chapo?”
“Yes, Joaquín Guzmán Loera, better known as El Chapo.”
“Seriously?”
“Sí, amigo, and in his spare time he’s the chief fixer for guys like Josiah Kamana and Genaro Blankenship. He knew the boat was dirty, and was probably glad to hand it off to you.”
“Drew Geary as in Andrew Geary?” Poker-playing Andy? “Holy fuck!”
“His wife’s well connected in Democratic politics. And she’s tight with the Republican governor as well. They both are.”
“Guess he wasn’t making enough as a trial lawyer.” I put the wine glass down and stood up.
“Got greedy. They all do.”
I pictured his beautiful home. “It’s not like he was living in a hovel. Fuck!” Andy?
“Maybe it’s not about money, though I still think it is. Some guys, they’re in it for the excitement. They like living eventful lives. They get addicted to the adrenaline rush.”
“You mean like us?”
“Yeah, except for the money part, I guess…. Well, and the side we choose to be on.”
“There’s a lot of sides.” I waved him goodbye and headed toward my still messed-up boat.
“Apparently…. What, dare I ask, is your next move?”
I turned to Rian. “A reunion of sorts.”
56
ALL IN
(Day 19—Friday, June 8) “You know you’re fucking crazy ringing my doorbell at—jeez what time is it?”
“Six-o-one a.m. Right where we left off. Get the cards. We’re playing.”
Andy was dressed in his pre-dawn uniform: undershirt and boxer shorts.
“Casino Night was last week, Dave. The next Casino Night is three weeks from now.”
Since my talk with Rian a few hours ago I’d driven myself crazy sorting through the entire mess yet again and this time it led me here. This guy had played me, had put me and my career at risk. What I felt was rage, a good deal of it aimed at myself for not figuring it out sooner. I was not about to be nice.
I walked right past Andy and into his house. I held up the one wood. “Your house. I need it to go with the fucking boat.”
“Joker’s wild?” He smiled.
“You think I’m kidding?” I swung the driver and took out what might have been his favorite vase.
“Hey! What the fuck you doing?”
“Next time it’s gonna be your face, you smirky shit.”
He held up a hand. “Hey. Whoa whoa whoa. What’s got into—”
“We’re playing.” I slammed the club on the shiny koa table. Put a nice dent in it. “Get the fucking deck! We’re cutting cards.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“Never been more serious. Get the fucking deck!”
Andy walked away and came back with a fresh deck of cards and laid it on the koa table. Gestured with his hands, indicating What now?
“It’s not so smart to bet against the house, so I’m betting for it. Cut a card.”
“Look,” he snorted. “In no way am I betting my house. You’d have to shoot me first.”
I broke another fabulous vase. “I’m using this on you next, you shit. Shuffle the deck and pull a card.”
Andy glared at me momentarily, then slowly complied.
He pulled a nine of diamonds.
I pulled a card. King of hearts.
“OK, you won. I’ll give you twenty bucks. Now get outta here so I can get some sleep.”
“No no no. We’re not done yet, Andy. Or do you prefer Drew? Actually Andy/Drew, it’s not your fucking house I want.” I tapped the wooden floor with the head of the club. “It’s information.”
“Hey. You got it. Just, please, don’t, please don’t break anything else.”
“How’d you get the boat?”
“In an auction.”
“Did it happen to be a boat repossessed after a drug bust?”
“Hey, possibly.” He shrugged. “I don’t friggin’ know.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Look, I didn’t know. All I knew was it was a great deal. An investment. I got it for a song.”
“For a song? Did you just say, for a song?”
I heard footsteps and turned to look. It was Andy’s wife. Her dark hair was loose, and she wore a Chinese silk brocade housecoat and matching slippers.
She approached cautiously. Looked at the shattered vase. “I called nine-one-one,” she said to Andy. Her weapon of choice was a closed cell phone, which sat in her palm. If she were carrying anything else, she was hiding it well.
Andy shook his head no. “That was dumb. Call back and say it was a mistake.”
Very calmly, she opened her phone and punched three digits with one hand. After a moment she said, “Hi. This is Janine Lee. I just called minutes ago. I’m sorry. My husband and I thought we had a burglar. It turned out to be my neighbor. He was locked out of his house.” Seconds passed, then she said, “Yes. I am sure. I’m really sorry to have overreacted…. Thank you.” She clicked the phone closed.
I looked at her. “Next time you wanna call the cops, ask for Richards in Homicide.”
“Homicide?” she said. “Andy, what’s this about?”
“He’s a private investigator. I sold him something. He wants a refund.”
“A boat. Just say what it is. A boat.”
She folded her arms. “I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Your husband nearly got me put away for ten years. So I don’t give a blood
y fuck what you don’t like.” I looked at Andy. “Cut the cards.”
“Oh Christ. What are we betting for now?”
“Not your wife.”
He looked at the deck, testily weighing his options, then pulled the two of clubs. Threw it on the floor like it was trash.
“You’re not doing too well, Andy. Try again.”
He pulled an ace.
I pulled an ace too.
“How the fuck do you do that?” He seemed oddly amused. “Just like last time.”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Fuck, this is rigged.”
“Tell me about it…. Try again.”
He pulled a seven.
I pulled an eight. “I want more information.”
When you’re chilled by anger, when you know you’re ready to cross any line, you don’t wanna think about it. You just channel that and hit every basket, make the craziest shots on the pool table, pull aces and eights out of card decks. I’d like to think it comes from a powerful sense of rightness. An aggrieved soul. But I know better.
Spinning blue lights outside. The doorbell went off. A dog barked.
“Just tell them it’s all right, Jan. Don’t let ’em see the mess.”
Janine did as told.
As she stepped away, I asked Andy, “How are you connected to Jerry Herblach?”
“Jerry who?”
“Forget it. How are you connected to Josiah Kamana?”
“Shit, everybody knows who Kamana is. I’ve never met the guy, though I donated money to his campaign once. That’s about it. For real.”
That was a total lie, but I let it go.
“Genaro Blankenship.”
“Are you just making up names now?”
“If I’m making up names, why are you looking so nervous, you lying motherfucker. I have a photo putting you in the same room with those guys. With abbacus.”
Even the best card players, when caught off guard, can’t maintain composure. Andy shook his head, made an innocent face, but it was too late.
“Why you breaking into a sweat, Andy?”
“Because I’m starting to realize why you’re here.”
For a Song Page 45